


latibule

by fakempire



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: F/M, sort of domestic!fic but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:32:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakempire/pseuds/fakempire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>latibule (n.) - a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	latibule

The stars were magnificent and bright and breathtaking. It was enough just to sit on the porch every single night and stare at them, as her breath made silvery puffs in the crisp-clear air. They didn’t need to talk and it felt like safety, like relief. Safety and relief was what they needed. She claimed it was what they  _deserved_ , but the concept was a bit too abstract for him to consider.

Sometimes when he looked at her face too much—

And he tried hard not to, he had memorized every angle and blemish and highlight anyway—

He saw the uncanny spiders of wrinkles making their way into her smiles, into the small gestures that granted his existence its long-lost sense. But he managed to push that thought away, to make it a redundant number in his endless calculations.

There was that one day when they found a wounded animal in the woods – a glass-eyed doe limping its way through the forest, leaving a trail that bore the colour of redcurrant – and they couldn’t save it. They could either watch it wither or kill it out of mercy, and mercy was what Elizabeth had in abundance; out of all beings, he should know it the best. She took the rifle they’d carefully stowed away in their shed, never to be used. She asked him to leave  _them_ alone and he obeyed wordlessly. The shot echoed painfully loud, followed by her short cry. When she returned, she was calm and her face was aglow with a strange light he could not begin to fathom.

There was a myriad of things he did not understand about her –

Why did she care for the colour of the blankets, what was the significance of the way he cut his hair and what clothes he wore ( _never the gray jumpsuit again_ , she  _pleaded_ , and the way she asked for this made him uncomfortable, as if there was something utterly wrong with the fact he ever wore them), and most of all, how she bid him goodnight when the night was just as bright as day to him.

But it was alright. Everything was finally alright. There was no pain and little uncertainty, and nobody was chasing them as long as they stood out of the headlights. If they managed to do just that, they could watch the ever-changing sky forever, drinking tea from battered cups and occasionally talking about unimportant things in languages no one else would understand.

There was a sense of common, somber understanding between them, a future that they both shared, alas in different ways.

Someday the stars would fade for her, someday the memories would stop plaguing her sleep and she would be allowed an eternal rest, the everlasting and final relief.

Someday the stars would be just points in space and he would feel no desire to call them  _miracles_ again. He would feel less and less until he wouldn’t feel  _alone_ anymore. Someday he’d venture out of this empty shack and that would be the end for him. No grand finale, no discoveries to be made, just men in lab coats and the white cooling liquid flowing everywhere.

But that night they were content, staring at the stars and both places – the glittering spots and the porch in the middle of godforsaken woods – were  _home_.


End file.
